


On the Rocks

by scullyseviltwin



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-10
Updated: 2005-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: Your eyes train on the amber in the glass and you ponder it steadily. It's a gorgeous potion really, holding so many powers.





	On the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**On the Rocks**

**by: ScullyAsTrinity**

**Character(s):** CJ, Toby  
**Pairing(s):** CJ/Toby  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Your eyes train on the amber in the glass and you ponder it steadily. It's a gorgeous potion really, holding so many powers.  


It would be so easy to put the drink down right now. It would be so simple to leave it there and walk away, depositing a few bills on the table. So, so easy. 

But you fall into the scotch like it can communicate to you. Amusing, communicate. Like anything could bitch, whine at this point. You're too far gone at this point to care about much of anything. If someone from the press pool came up and asked you anything you'd probably tell them to fuck off, even if they were holding a tape recorder to your mouth. 

You're a human, why can't people realize that? You live, you breathe, you bleed for Christ's sake and no one seems to give a shit either way. Your eyes train on the amber in the glass and you ponder it steadily. It's a gorgeous potion really, holding so many powers. 

Do you really need one more? No, you don't need it, but you want it, so you take it into your mouth and automatically fight back the cringe that comes with it. Scotch was never your thing, was it? No, but it was his thing. It still is. Isn't it? 

So easy to walk out of the depressing hold, serving round after round of JD. You could leave right now. You could call a cab and stumble to the curb in what you would call grace and tell the driver your address. It's a possibility, you could. Cell phone, to your right, and all you'd have to do was dial 411. 

Instead, you order a double on the rocks. Good girl, displace your pain, drown it out. You're human. You're allowed to. 

There's some sort of low jazz in the background, something stupid and sad and it pisses you off. Jazz pisses you off in general. The notes are always so drawn out, as if waiting for someone to attach to them, like they're begging, asking you for something, even if you have nothing to give. You'd much prefer Joni Mitchell, her low voice crooning out cliché love songs that you can't really relate to because you've never been in love. 

That's a lie. You have been in love. You are in love, but not in the way that you'd like. 

You wouldn't die for him, that's for sure. There's only one person you'd ever die for, and that's the President. If they'd asked you years ago, you would have said you'd die for your father but he's too far gone to realize that it's you who's dying for him and it's pointless now. You've done all you can do. 

Done all you can for a lot of people. 

But him, well, you might consider it for a second before allowing the bullet to rip through his skin. He's so, so selfish, almost as selfish as you are. Obsessed with a cause that isn't his, that was never his and yet he continues to hunt it down like some rare treasure. Treasure, what the hell is that... 

You toss back the drink with intention. You want to get drunk, and why the hell not? It's Saturday and you have a blissful ten hours to yourself before you have to trudge back to the lovely brightness of your office, before you have to face another soul who claims to know your name. You toy with the idea of ordering another double, but decide against it. Even drunk you're not that stupid. You know what a hangover feels like, you know what your hair will look like after a night of drinking and ask the waitress for a water and watch her walk away. 

She has a glorious, tight ass and you wonder if she's going to get laid tonight. Hell, who cares? Everyone but you will get laid tonight and you can't bring yourself (about) to care because that's just all too common. You're not past your prime but then again you are. It's sad, because you know you're still so very amazing in bed. 

The tight-assed waitress brings the sparkling spring water in a grimy glass and you drink it down and don't even have to bother ordering another. He's there before you, a plastic bottle in hand, cap twisted off, a priest offering sacrament to your damned soul. You wonder if you're a heathen; can you look into the face of righteousness and reject him? 

Fuck that; the water is sluicing down your throat before he has the chance to sit down and it's a task not to thank him. He must have been watching, he must have. You don't care... you don't want to... you do, because he knows what you need. 

You almost wish that he would leave, would just let you wallow, but you can't, can you? Can you? Oh no, he's there before you, deeper down than you are, and then it's you who wants to hold him, offer him some sort of solace, water or wine or your body. 

You're both so lost but there's nothing to communicate in words. He's better on paper and you're better in front of an audience and all you can do is stare each other down, daring the other to break the unwritten rules of speech. 

Neither of you do so you chug the rest of the bottle and leave it on its side, to rock back and forth on the table. It's a calming motion and the both of you stare at it for a moment. Then he asks you what you knew he was going to ask you, do you want to go home. You don't; if you had wanted to go home, you would have gone home straight from the office, but you came here. 

Maybe... do you want to go back to his place? He poses the question to you, not out of love or lust, but out of the friendship you know grounds the two of you. He takes your hand in his, grips it stronger than he ever has and pulls you straight to his side. You didn't think you were that drunk, but apparently you are, so he helps you stumble down the block to grab a cab. 

And you slump against him in the cab, holding back from twisting your fingers in his hair. You always liked his hair, haven't touched it in quite some time. But he brushes his hand over your arm and kisses the top of your head. He can be sweet when he wants to be, when no one's looking, and no one's looking now, so you kiss him soft on the side of the lips. 

He stiffens and brushes his hand up and down your arm once more, tightens his other around your shoulders and kisses your head again. Sweet, he really is... 

Your last thought is of how absurd it was for Toby to offer you, the Catholic, sacrament with his mouth and body. And then you don't care. 


End file.
